


For What

by superwonderful



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Doubt, Gen, Open to Interpretation, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7033750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superwonderful/pseuds/superwonderful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roadhog hasn't killed Junkrat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For What

After the radiation, Jamison's brain felt like sand and dirty nails. Rattling, ticking, scraping. It was hurting but good. All the time.

That's how he felt when he was destroying things. It was too much to not smile, to not eek out a coiling, reedy giggle. What was the right response when you single handedly brought things that should stay and be strong to the ground with the press of a ruby button? With the pull of a trigger. It was mad and sublime and shit. Sure, you made bank, but that was nothing compared to the fire. Knowing you made that fire.

That's why Jamison liked Mako. Mako also liked to kill and hurt the things that people built. His heart, perhaps, was not in the same place as Jamison's, but that didn't matter. When Mako's course hand dragged him by the elbow out of an ashy pit, embers licking at Jamison's cheeks and nose, it was something unique. Watching Mako's tight fingers wrap around a Los Muertos bastard's neck. His body fat slightly jerk with the punctuated bullet spray of his scrap gun. Jamison would climb onto Mako's shoulder and volley as many cherries as he could into an occupied vault. His partner's wheezing cackles caused a sick, wonderful tang to creep up his stomach and sting the back of his throat.

It was shared destruction. More than the young man thought he'd ever have.

Jamison did not have good memories. It seemed now that the place where that horrid shit, memories of home and losing it, all that had clogged up his head, was being flushed. Like an enema. The experiences he had with Mako filled in the newly bare crevices, spreading dark, exciting roots. What he did with Mako was all he had now.

Jamison picked the dirt from under his black fingernails. He chewed at them, instinctively moved his mouth to the robotic fingers of the other hand before realizing his mistake. He returned mouth to real thumbnail, his real skin, lined with dirt and fallout and swatted bug. His pinky found its way to his gold canine, rubbed the squeaky surface as a means of unimportant, momentary stimulation before spitting into the camp fire before him.

To his right, Mako polished his hook with a reddening cloth. The quiver of the flames trembled in the eyes of his hog-mask. He snorted softly, turning the thing this way and that, away from him, in the light. The cool night air seemed to make the hook more strong, icy and intense in his palm, even in the heat of the fire. The pause ended, he resumed.

A sack of uncounted green bills sat between the two, bulky and fat with blood streaks and earth. Jamison leaned on it with his scabbed elbow. He watched Mako for a moment. Words were on his chapped lips that he wasn't sure were worth saying. He pressed his palm to the back of his head, felt the sweat.

"Mm, by'th'way, thanks. That bastard woulda cut me head clean off," he said, almost too quick. A mosquito landed on his metal arm and Jamison swatted it away.

Mako did not look up. "You hired me."

Even though Jamison liked Mako, he did not feel liked. All the money, treasure, and secrets Mako kept put a pike between their talks. The only thing that made Jamison feel like he meant anything was that he was still alive. He'd puzzle why Mako hadn't crushed his head while he slept.

All these months later, the treasure Jamison had found was held by both of their scarred hands. Mako hadn't killed him or let him be killed.

It had happened again. Roughly an hour and a half ago Mako had saved him. It shouldn't have happened in the first place. A security guard had gotten a wire around his neck. He pulled it so tight, Jamison had seen stars and static. Mako had yanked the man off his shoulder blades, his spine. The sound of the man's cry and the gun blast was still with him.

It didn't make sense.

Mako said nothing more, setting the rag over his crossed knee. He snapped the hook back on his belt, exhaled, coughed.

Jamison watched his large, tattooed gut rise and fall with breath. A small twig was nestled in a fold of fat under his brown nipple. His snowy hair was down for once, silvery and slick about his protruding ears. Jamison looked down and saw the tearing elastic at Mako's side.

"I like," Jamison said, overcome with something. He bit his bottom lip as Mako's snout turned. "That, we-, we have fun."

Mako was still for a moment. Then his thick shoulders rose and fell. "Mm."

Jamison forced a grin and arched himself, laying the back of his jester hat of blonde hair on the duffel bag. The stars hummed in the sky, trembling. Jamison's eyes scanned what he could see, tried to find some meaning in it. He let out a soft 'aha,' and snapped his fingers.

"Stars kinda look like little fuses, eh? Or-, or- maybe tiny, eensy weensy explosions. All goin' off perpetually n' all that." Jamison breathed out, in awe? Maybe. "Can'tcha just imagine it?"

He heard Mako grunt.

Jamison laid his gloved hand onto his forehead, brow furrowed. He pushed his fingers up, through what remained of his locks. The hand slid from his scalp, fell awkwardly beside him.

Upside-down, he saw Mako bring his attention to the knuckles of his right hand, huffing. Jamison's eyes lit up, and he turned his neck to get a glance at them. Crimson, chunky wounds covered Mako's briefly ring-less fingers. The drying blood glinted in the firelight.

"Hooley, how'd'ja go and do that?"  
"Work."

Jamison felt that he shouldn't push it. That was the answer he'd gotten. He paused, dabbled his metal fingers on his chin. His eyes lingered on Mako's colorless locks.

"Want me to tie ya hair up, mate?"

Mako didn't move. "Whatever," he said.

Jamison scooped the elastic from the dirt, stumbling on his peg leg to get behind his partner's broad back. He told himself to breathe, to relax. His own hands were shaky. It was a symptom of the scraping stuff in his brain.

This was not the first time he'd done this. With as much gentleness as he could muster, Jamison pulled Mako's hair into the little cotton tail he was so used to seeing. He took the time to brush his palms on the base of Mako's skull, rub out the dry skin flakes, undo the knots, always careful with the ridges of his metal fingers. After a while, he allowed himself to lean against Mako's shoulder blades, preening behind the man's small ears. All the time, Mako behaved indifferent, elsewhere. The familiarity was comforting; it gave Jamison's heart a rest. He made sure the tie was tight, then dropped himself down onto the duffel bag.

"Feel alright?"  
"Fine," Mako said.  
"Great."  
"You've got a bruise around your neck, rat."

Instinctively, Jamison's hands went for his throat. He pressed a thumb into the flesh and winced, grimacing. It felt hot. The line of the wire was still etched in his skin. He made a dismissive gesture, smiled crookedly at Mako.

"S'alright. Could be dead, eh?"  
"You would be."

The sound of the fire crackling filled the air. Mako began to clean his shrapnel gun the same way as his hook, snuffling. Jamison stared at him for only a moment. Then, he turned his eyes towards the place in the dirt a ways away where they'd buried the treasure, together, earlier that day. And they'd dig it back up, together. And then they'd leave and go somewhere else. Together. They would. He could convince himself if he'd just try.

Looking into the flames, Jamison kept pressing the bruise. Tighter, now with every mechanical finger. Tears squeezed from his eyes, meeting the curve of his upturned lips. His lungs grew achy and dull. His brain got taut. He stopped breathing again and a speck of saliva trailed down his chin. The pressure set off fireworks, bombs, in his brain.

Suddenly, Jamison felt a hand the size of a boulder close around his wrist, yank it away. The force caused his body to jerk forward, coming face to face with the pitch black pig snout, the light of piercing eyes behind glass. Jamison cursed and pulled back.

"Idiot," Mako growled.  
"What'sa matter? Jesus!"  
"I worked hard to make sure that damn neck didn't get cut open. Leave it alone!"

Jamison, startled, stopped resisting. Mako was firm, but his hold wasn't painful. Eventually his arm went fully lax in Mako's grip, and the larger man let him go. Jamison retreated back in his seat. He felt color in his face. His eyes went to the toe of his boot. A beetle the size and color of a grape crawled onto it.

"M'sorry."  
"Don't do it again."

Jamison hugged his arms to his chest, tense. Mako resumed his task. Jamison watched him wipe something maroon from the gun, fresh blood running down the base of his thick index finger onto the honey yellow of the barrel. They sat without speaking for a time. Eventually, Jamison couldn't stand it.

"Hog," he said.  
Mako did not look up. "What?"  
"Do I make ya unhappy?"  
He snorted. "Often."  
"Do ya like me?"  
"I've gotten used to you."  
"Does that mean ya like me?"  
A pause. "In ways."  
"What kind?"  
"You're occasionally amusing."  
"You said 'ways,' c'mon, tell me somethin' else."  
Another pause. "Your laugh," Mako said.

Jamison sniffed, blinked, slowly ran a hand down his blackened face. He looked at his gloved palm, coming away with ash and salt.

"Aw," he said, voice cracking. "I like ya laugh, too, mate."  
"Thanks," Mako said, toneless.

There was a comfortable silence between them, filled with the sound of burning wood. Eventually, Mako put away his gun and the cloth. He planted his hands on the ground at his sides and stood up.

"We should move, now," he said. "Put the fire out, I'll start digging the thing up."  
"Not gonna wait till morning?" Jamison moved to stand. "Damn tired."  
"No."  
"Why not?"  
"We're going now, rat." Mako grabbed his arm and gave him a shove in the direction of the water bucket.  
"Alright, alright, ya big bastard."

With the fire extinguished and hole dug, Jamison and Mako removed the treasure from the pit. Jamison admired it for a moment as he usually did.

This time however, he did not look at Mako. He didn't check to see if Mako was eyeing him, deciding whether or not it'd be worth killing him before taking the thing.

Jamison told himself that Mako liked him.

And when Mako pat his shoulder, began to walk with him through the navy light of the forest with treasure and spoils in tow, a warmth spread through his chest and stalled the scraping in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> http://draftydogfacehat.tumblr.com/post/145275161244/for-what


End file.
